Truckloads

We depend on so many:
tables and chairs that raise us,
the bathroom mirror you sigh to,
cellar spiders that mind our wares,
and the lonely young girl
who mixes the cream into this paper.

Preparing for the move,
we finished our packing
by late afternoon.

“Everything fits,” you said.
“Not another space. Not another box.”

A part of ourselves
is shaped like a cube.
The other is formed as an egg.

For one short night,
the old house was empty
and we stayed through with dreams
untangled from daily mythology.

I placed my naked body
between your naked arms
and conspired to lift the ceiling,
to bathe us in wind and stars

and send us off towards dawn,
like kites unstrung.

With daylight,
I decided on ceremony
and contrived to make you some tea.
Of course, I had boxed our old kettle
and you had packed away our cups.

Ungainly, in housecoat and socks,
I climbed back into the truck
seeking a medium
to profess our new day.
In the back,
I found my old lyre
packed with the saucepans
and spice jars,
cinnamon spilled all over.

by David Weedmark, from First Stirrings